


Secrets and Lies

by Thimblerig



Series: The Lion and the Serpent [35]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Author Regrets Life Choices, Awkward Conversations, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-13 16:36:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11189094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig
Summary: "Where to now?"





	1. bright lights, big city

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies for the short first chapter. I'll try to get the second chapter up by tomorrow.

“The Musketeer garrison is that way,” d’Artagnan said helpfully, riding easily beside the two-wheeled tumbril.

“Thank you, d’Artagnan,” said Aramis, adjusting his disreputable hood. He twitched the reins and the little yellow horse, Jezebel, flicked one ear under a straw hat adorned with cornflowers, considered for a long moment, and finally stepped forward in a gracious manner along the muddy cobbles of the Parisian street, hauling the cart through a flock of ducks being driven to market. They parted like a bow wave around a tiny, creaking ship loaded with smuggled tobacco and bands of fussy Flemish lace.

“We didn’t have to sneak into the city, you know,” d’Artagnan added. “Nobody’s a criminal here. Well. Nobody knows _you…”_

“You have such a charming way of putting it,” Aramis grinned. He steered them towards the market district instead.

“You’re not still afraid of this Dolores woman following you, surely? The last time you thought you saw her was five whole hats ago.”

“And very fine hats they were too,” added Aramis.

“Hey,” said d’Artagnan, low and urgent, “can we take a detour? My wife has a house near here…”

Aramis looked at him steadily. “Of a certainty,” he said, and let the younger man steer them to the Rue de Fossoyeurs. 

The old Bonacieux house was brightly lit and welcoming, the lamps in the window shining like beacons in the dusk. It was only when his horse, Zad, tossed his head and kicked at a passing hay wagon that d’Artagnan realised that he was shaking.

The door that opened into the courtyard had been newly painted - green, this time. It opened with a snap, and d’Artagnan’s heart leapt in his chest. How could she know he was here?

But what came out was a small girl, with strands of russet hair falling out of a rumpled linen cap, running out to pull washing off the line and away from the evening damp.

“Oh,” said d’Artagnan softly, his voice falling like a bird. “I remember now. In her last letter, Constance said she was renting it to her cousins. She didn’t use it enough…” He felt a warm hand light on his knee and squeeze lightly. 

“It will be alright.”

He shook himself. “Of course it will. She’s probably run ragged working for the - working in the Louvre.” He twisted in the saddle to peer at the baggage in the back of the tumbril. “Where to now? Off to market to flog your ill-gotten gains?”

“Ah… I rather fancied the Louvre myself. We could… visit your lady wife on the way?”

D’Artagnan winced.

“It’s almost like there’s something you’re not telling me.” Aramis smiled.


	2. underbelly

_underbelly_

 

“Is this really an appropriate time to pray?” he asked, feeling the chill of the rough stone wall against his shoulder blades.

Aramis, tucked into the shadowy corner of the tunnel, ignored him, muttering quietly to himself as his fingers worked the plain wooden beads of the rosary he’d started carrying since he went away.

D’Artagnan could feel water seeping through the wool of his servant’s neat brown doublet. He sighed gustily. Aramis opened one eye, glared at him monoptically, and pointedly shifted the loop of the beads in his hands back to the beginning. D’Artagnan rolled his eyes and shifted uncomfortably. True to form, they had not entered the Louvre through the front gates, or even the little door to the side which Constance had sometimes used when she was about her errands as the Queen’s private messenger. Instead they were coming in through an old service tunnel, its entrance almost hidden by falling ivy. D’Artagnan vaguely recognised it from the time of Rochefort’s attempted coup, following Milady de Winter into the palace along her secret ways. He shifted his weight again.

Aramis opened his eyes.

“Second left, up the stairs to the servant’s entrance hidden in the receiving chamber - it should be clear at this time of night - cross it to the shallow steps down and that will take us to the gardens where we can avail ourselves of a shortcut.”

D’Artagnan blinked.

“I’m not _completely_ incapable of remembering directions,” Aramis said reproachfully and set off, straightening his severe black coat as he went.

“Of course she told you how to break in here. Probably half a dozen other palaces, too.”

But Aramis only shook his head irritably and walked briskly under the palace, along the maze that servants and spies knew.

 

**

 

_a comfortable place for an awkward conversation_

 

“I’ve enjoyed travelling with you this last week,” he remarked to the Gascon padding behind him. It was very dark along the white-columned colonnade at this time of night, and a miserable drizzle of rain muffled sounds in the palace and the low lawn beside them, adorned a low hedge maze. Somewhere an irritable peacock announced itself.

He heard the smile in the boy’s voice as he allowed, “It hasn’t been _all_ bad.” A scuff of his boot and he said, “This is nowhere near - I mean, I thought you were going to visit - it’s…” He huffed an irritable breath and said, “But where are you _going?”_

Aramis paused, hand on the flat side of one of the pillars.

Looking out into the night, he said, “If I asked what you were expecting…” He didn’t need to see d’Artagnan’s face to envision the woebegone look on it - for a trained and seasoned soldier the lad had a good lock on ‘drowned puppy’.

D’Artagnan’s voice firmed. “Either you know or you don’t. You can hint all you like, but I’m not cracking the lid on this without you remembering for certain or Athos’ say-so. And Athos isn’t here.”

Aramis smiled into the night. “Hoist on my own petard,” he commented.

“But where are you _going?”_

“D’Artagnan,” he said softly, “I thank you for your company, but you might want to sit this next part out.”

“Ha! The others will kill me if you get in trouble.” A shuffle of feet. “I’d be bothered too.”

Aramis turned to d’Artagnan and smiled again. “Well then.”

D’Artagnan bit his lip regretfully. “I’m s-”

“It’s fine.”

“Just be careful. If -”

“Yes yes.” Aramis grinned. “If this gets you hanged you’ll take it _very_ personally.”

“Oh yes,” d’Artagnan grinned back. “One treason trial was enough.”

Aramis choked. “Excuse me?”

 

**

 

_counsel_

 

“Why me?” he said to Aramis’ black-clad back as they paced down dark corridors. They had passed several groups of servants by now but Aramis’ skullcap (acquired from a small, pretty chapel they had detoured through) and the tall stack of leather-bound books (blithely purloined from a much larger, though less beautiful, library) and in addition a certain air of belonging let them pass without comment, assumed as they were to be a clerk and his assistant. “Athos and Porthos would have come along if you asked.”

“Hm,” said Aramis distractedly, counting doors along a corridor of offices. “Perhaps, perhaps. But there are things I can do with you that I couldn’t with the others.

“Like?”

“Well, this.” Aramis stopped and turned, still abstracted, and D’Artagnan turned to follow his gaze.

He never saw the punch coming.

As he staggered back, swearing, he saw Aramis shake out his hand, wincing. “D’Artagnan,” he said regretfully, “I am so very s-”

The second punch came out of nowhere, again. He fell into blackness. The books dropped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This whole chapter was supposed to be a helluva lot more antagonistic, but d’Artagnan insisted on missing his wife in chapter one, and Aramis decided he was going to be sympathetic, and gah, making me rewrite things you little rotters.)


	3. well played

Weary to the bone Treville paced the ornate halls of the Louvre, his brocade minister’s robes swirling around his ankles. Late as it was - near midnight - he still had work to do. It felt like the world was at war, always. He did not know how Richelieu had managed it. Unlocking the door to his private study he stepped inside - then immediately back, hand pawing at where he used to keep a sword. On the secretary's desk lay d'Artagnan, his lean face peaceful in repose and his dark hair falling away from his brow. He lay on his back, as if for burial were it not for one cloak laid over him like a blanket, another rolled up under his head. 

“I was worried he would catch cold.”

Further into the office, the shadows hardly lifted by a single candle, Aramis leafed through a stack of papers and charts on Treville’s own workspace. “Good evening, Captain.”

Treville let his hand drop. “Aramis,” he said gruffly, blinking hard.

Aramis looked up and a smile flickered on his lips. “My apologies. Good evening,  _ Minister.  _ Identity can be a fragile thing.”

“How are you, Aramis?”

The former soldier considered the question briefly as he flicked through a small stack of butterfly paintings, their distinctive markings and dots traced over to show the plans of distant fortresses. “I would not say ‘fine and fit’, Minister, but I manage. I gather you have some knowledge of my circumstances?”

Treville grunted an assent. “What are you doing here?”

“It was the head injury that saved me,” said Aramis, still looking at the charts. “In Savoy. The massacre, that is.”

Treville’s eyes narrowed. “That’s ancient business. Aramis, are you - do you know where you are -” But the other went on.

“With twenty dead soldiers in the snow, and a deserter, if I hadn't come back with a... convincing reason for not fighting to the death,” he shrugged, “well. A month of headaches and dizziness and, oh, a nightmare or two, they were small enough price to keep my reputation. I’d have been forced out of the Regiment, else, one way or another.” Aramis smiled to himself. “Perhaps I would have sought a place in the Church. It's strange how a man's history turns on such a small detail.”

“I remember a story,” he went on, “about a day at the tail end of winter, when the Lenten fast tightened the belts and dried the mouths of all good Christian men, and two great personages walked down a colonnade of the Louvre. And as the snow fell down the churchman and the soldier faithful and strong discussed the nature of needful sacrifice. A short conversation, but it affected me a great deal - if it happened. But I'm all to pieces - poor, battered Aramis, with his head scattered across the floor, what do I know? Perhaps you can help me.”

“It happened,” said Treville grimly. “And it  _ was _ a necessary sacrifice, that is the truth.”

“Truth is a rare bird,” said Aramis with great gentleness. “It shifts its shape depending on where you stand to view it. When you told me, after, that we were fed to the fire in the defence of a woman, that was the truth I needed to hear at the time. I commend you on your perspicacity, Minister.”

He smiled with the corners of his mouth. “I lost credibility that day - poor, emotional Aramis who makes wild accusations when he's upset - but I gather I'd long been considered erratic and it would have been a small loss. I wonder, were you trying to make it up to me later, when I ran off with Agnes Barnard and her Royal son? Or was that a bit of tidying up that you would have ordered, if you could have found the words, if there hadn't been a volunteer? I've been mulling it over and I honestly can't decide. I cannot read you as well as I would like.”

His eyes grew thoughtful. “He would have tried,” Aramis added. “He would have swallowed down the guilt and the grief and become complicit in the lie. He would have tried to be -” He shook his head irritably. “It was well played, Minister.”

“It wasn't like that,” growled Treville.

“Am I being too harsh? My apologies. It is the truth I can see from where I stand. Perhaps that will change in time.”

“The Regiment had your back when you needed it, boy.”

Aramis raised his eyebrows in polite inquiry. When Treville did not continue, he said, “then you have my sincere thanks on his behalf.”

“Aramis,” said Treville, a growl in his voice, “is there a point to your coming here or are you just going to fling accusations?”

The other cocked his head. “I'm looking for a truth,” he said confidentially. “And I'm being rather selfish about it, for I  _ want _ the truth to be that my partner, despite all protestations, would have come back for me were she able. But Minister, the truth that she were far away, safe, happy, and victorious, that truth would be agreeable also.” Still shuffling through the papers, his fingers stopped on a loose page, dirty and creased, its simple list of ships and ports half-obscured by the ugly dark brown of an old blood stain. “Ah!” He held it up to the light and smiled, cat-like, “this is where it got to. That's one mystery solved, at any rate.”

“I am in the peculiar situation wherein I have something to trade. But I know not what it is worth - year-old intelligence? pff - nor what it is worth to _you._ Then again, what I desire is such a small thing, it is a muddle. Perhaps you can help me.

“That story, of two men walking down the colonnade in the snow while they talked of practical matters is oddly informative, Minister: I know that you can be leaned on; I know that you can bend; I have some idea what you will do to keep a secret. But do you know the most interesting thing about it?”

“I never told you that detail of the story,” said Treville, nostrils flaring.

Aramis waited, smiling faintly.

“What do you want?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aramis, you Drama Queen.
> 
>  _“Am I being too harsh?”_ \- I think he is, actually. Treville seemed to be floundering just as much in that episode. But, eh, Aramis has had some fairly exacting tutelage in practical emotional manipulation recently and the thought ‘If I wanted to make someone like me shut up and get back to work, and I knew that someone really well, In Defence of a Woman is exactly the card I'd play’ was probably running through his head. And, sometimes intent matters less than action - it's the sort of thing that would have tied Aramis up in knots.


	4. les inseperables

He stumbled out of dark dreams of pain and cold and fear, of snow on the floor and spiders spinning webs in the high throats of bread-ovens, doomed to burn when the fires were lit or was that the sun - ?

D’Artagnan cracked his eyes open. He was staring at a candle, the yellow-and-amber flame so close it was bright against the shadows of the echoing room. His head ached, and there was a crick in his neck from where he had turned awkwardly in his sleep. He blinked drowsily on the hard surface on which he lay, collecting himself. There was a low rumble of voices to the side and he breathed quietly, letting the tides of sound wash over him.

“... I got out, did I not? Let this evening serve as my audition for the reverse.”

It was Aramis, his light tenor clear and precise. An answer, too low to understand and he laughed sharply.

“I try not to let personal issues cloud my judgement.”

A harsher response.

“I can promise my best, that’s all. It falls on your nod - do we have an understanding?”

A rustle of papers, a click of small objects. D’Artagnan groaned and rolled onto his side, which quickly turned into a fall off the table where some madman had placed him. He landed with a squawk and a thump, and picked himself up woozily.

“I hate you,” he told the back of Aramis’ skull-capped head, where the man perched with his feet tucked under himself on the top of a great carved desk.

Aramis looked over his shoulder. “Would an apology help?” he asked seriously.

“No.”

“Well then.”

A testy cough, and d’Artagnan realised that Cap - Minister Treville was standing in the darkness on the other side of the great desk, his eyes sharp and hard as augers. D’Artagnan came to attention with another squawk. Treville waved his hand. “At ease,” he said gruffly, and d’Artagnan tottered forward, trying to appear alert and competent.

There was a litter of small objects on the desk between them, pens and seals and pumice stones laid out like one of the tactical maps Aramis liked to improvise, all contained in the loop of the plain rosary the man carried. Treville picked it up and looked gravely at the steel medallion of Michael Archangel - the soldier’s saint - that linked the loop of decade beads to the pendant string. 

_“Be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the Devil,”_ Aramis said calmly, quoting the prayer owed to St Michael, _”and cast into hell…_ Well.”

Treville flipped the medallion and rubbed his thumb over the curlicued ‘A’ graven on the back. 

“Sir,” said d’Artagnan blurrily, “you have to give that back.” Drowsy as he was, it seemed terribly important that Treville knew to be careful. “He keeps his head in it, I think.”

Aramis looked at him, his tar-black eyes very soft. “You really are the sweetest person, sometimes.”

Treville’s jaw tightened and d’Artagnan cringed slightly. “Sorry for speaking out of turn, sir.” His head ached, and it was hard to think.

The Minister dropped the beads like a rattling waterfall into the bowl of Aramis’ hand and, dipping a feather pen into ink, scribed a quick, precise map on a scrap of paper, and labelled it _the Convent of Bourbon les-Eaux._ “I would not have hidden de Winter’s location from you.”

“It is kind of you to say,” Aramis answered, unfolding himself from the table as Treville scattered sand on the damp ink. He bowed with exquisite politeness as Treville gave him the paper.

“Now get out.”

Aramis bowed again, and vanished.

“D’Artagnan,” Treville said sharply. _”Stay.”_ In the light of the last low candles the lines and grooves of his face cut deeply. He looked weary as the hills.

D’Artagnan’s eyes flicked to the door and then to Treville. “If I leave him alone the Captain will kill me,” he said urgently. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Treville watched silently as the soldier he had trained from a youth trotted out the door. He rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his shoulders. Then he lit two more candles from the guttering stub, swept the desk clear, and opened one of his dossiers.

He still had work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that wasn't too much of a downer ending. The next installment should be up soon.
> 
> Special thanks to Lady_Neve for the spider imagery.
> 
> Not a Catholic, but Google and a Catholic friend tell me that rosaries can be personalised like Aramis'. (If you're going to spend a lot of time with a prayer focus, why not make it specific, I guess.)


End file.
